I am the spawn of an unused condom
on a bedside table and a brief
disregard for outcome.
I would not call it love. No.
And there it is — I am — convulsed
into some cold gloved hands
and thence pampered, molded
and slow mouldering — kneaded
as dough — risen as a loaf
of will and long odds.
And what greater gift is breath,
to be turned, again and ever
into a wind that fists its way
into my lungs, pierces my tongue,
explodes my spine, that behind,
in the still absent eddy, where
There is nothing, nothing
but prints and the various bits:
regret, dissonance and the sure brine
of having not run that way.